


Try!

by yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras needs to chill, Fluff, Grantaire has had ENOUGH, Kiss cam, M/M, but then doesn't he always, did i mention i hate heteronormativity, they're at a rugby match
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12283338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme/pseuds/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme
Summary: Grantaire thinks that a trip to see France vs England will be a fun day out, but he's dreadfully wrong. Because, of course, he takes Enjolras to see a match that France lose. And that's not even where things start to go pear-shaped.





	Try!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! I thought I'd better explain some rugby terms, just in case anyone would like to know! If you're a rugby pro, and I get of any this wrong, sorry.
> 
> A try: When a player gets the ball over a line at the end of the pitch, giving their team five points. 
> 
> A conversion: When a team scores a try, then convert it (giving them an extra two points) by kicking the ball between the posts. 
> 
> The Six Nations: A yearly rugby tournament played between England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, France and Italy.
> 
> The Grand Slam: When a team wins the Six Nations by winning all their matches 
> 
> I hope everything makes sense, and I hope you enjoy it :-D

For the fifth time in what feels like as many minutes, Grantaire physically drags back Enjolras back into his seat, lest the incredibly angry blond jump onto the pitch, as he’s been threatening to do for the entire duration of the match. He wishes again that he’d brought Bahorel with him, and not Courfeyrac, because whilst Bahorel would help Grantaire preventing Enjolras maiming the referee, Courfeyrac is just as likely to do said maiming. Although admittedly Bahorel has never missed the opportunity for a good fight.

So Grantaire just sits between his two screaming friends, periodically pulling one of them back to a sitting position. Eight times out of ten it is of course, bloody Enjolras who is causing a problem. 

He’d been looking forward to seeing this match greatly. It was meant to be a fun day out, a Six Nations rugby match between France and England, and Grantaire had hoped for a nice spot of lunch beforehand, a drink during the game, which they would surely enjoy, and then perhaps a curry afterwards and then crashing at one of their apartments for the night. Grantaire is not a fussy man, and does not expect much. But even his relatively low standards had not yet been met by the disaster that his life currently was. 

Because what he had not predicted was for Enjolras to get in a fight with a waiter at lunchtime over whether the lettuce was organic or not. He doesn’t think that Enjolras had particularly cared either way, he just seemed to be looking for a fight. Why he was, god only knows. Grantaire had experienced the whole event with his head in his hands, too tired to even get involved, whilst Enjolras had deftly argued his way into trouble, and then failed, in true Enjolras fashion, to get himself out of it, ending with the three of them being chucked out of the restaurant entirely. 

At that point, Grantaire had wished he’d brought Combeferre, who surely would have been the voice of reason and might have stopped the fight. 

Still, he’d kept up his hopes as they entered the stadium, as Enjolras seemed remarkably perky and all that Courfeyrac had done was chortle his head off, so as they settled into their seats Grantaire had smiled at the sunshine that was shining onto his face. Not to mention the light was doing wonderful things to Enjolras’s curls. If only he knew what was to come. 

Of course, the match had then started and France had started to lose rather rapidly. Grantaire supposes that he really should have seen it coming, England were by far the better team, and were set to win the tournament and the Grand Slam for the second year in a row. Enjolras, as official France Trash #1 (the title had originally started out as a joke but was now a totally legitimate way to refer to Enjolras when amongst their friends), was absolutely fuming and screaming insults at the referee, along with the rest of the stadium and undoubtedly the rest of France. 

They’re three quarters of the way through the first half, and Grantaire wants to go home. 

He just sighs when England score another try (and Grantaire has to admit even in his relatively biased position that it is a good try), and is mildly amused when for once Enjolras is speechless. From the various emotions that cross his face almost simultaneously, it’s like he can’t seem to decide who to be angrier at, the English team for scoring, the French team for not scoring, or the referee for whatever bout of nasty cheating by an English player that he’d supposedly missed.

The speechlessness only lasts a few, wonderful seconds before Enjolras lets out a long stream of expletives that makes the nice, normal family in front of them turn around in horror, the seven year old squeaking and gaping at Enjolras in fear. That is when Grantaire decides that he has had enough, because even he draws the line at extreme profanity in front of small children. 

“Enjolras, will you please just sit down?” He snaps, folding his arms grumpily as Enjolras turns to look at him in surprise, as though he had forgotten he was there. “Unless you have forgotten, we are meant to be on a nice day out, on my first day off in two weeks, and so far you have managed to completely ruin it! So sit down, shut up, and just enjoy the match.” He finishes, trying to rein in his smug smile when Enjolras sits down guiltily, red in the face. He doesn’t want Enjolras to know he’s completely unable to stay angry at him most of the time. Of course, there are days when Grantaire wonders how Enjolras is still alive, not having been killed yet, but most of the time Enjolras’s stubbornness and passion is simply endearing, when it isn’t overboard. 

Enjolras does not say anything in response, his expression that of a scolded toddler, but on the other side of Grantaire, Courfeyrac has to shove his knuckles in his mouth to stop laughing. Grantaire sends him a withering look, as Courfeyrac knows that Grantaire is not angry and threatens blowing his cover. 

When the whistle for half time sounds, Courfeyrac is sent on a mission for refills of drinks, Grantaire deciding that it’s necessary, leaving Grantaire with an embarrassed Enjolras. It’s quite amusing watching the cogs tick behind Enjolras’s face, trying to formulate an apology. 

“I’m sorry-“ is all that the blond manages to get out before Grantaire waves him off awkwardly, deciding to put the poor man out of his misery. It’s not like Grantaire could ever really hold a grudge against such a wonderful person. 

“Enj, it’s fine.” He says tiredly. “But come on, we should have known France were going to lose.” 

“We’re not going to lose.” Enjolras shoots back, earning himself an exasperated eye-roll. 

“We are. The score is 3-14.” Grantaire gestures at the scoreboard, not even being cynical, simply realistic. 

“And there’s still half the match to go. We could score two tries by then.” 

“And convert them both? Our kickers aren’t good enough.” Grantaire practically scoffs. 

“Yeah, they are!” 

“How are we going to get past the English defence, huh?” 

Whatever Enjolras’s next comment was going to be, however, is cut off by loud music bursting through the stadium’s speakers, a cheesy love song announcing the beginning of the half time kiss cam, the bane of all sports viewers with any self-confidence issues (which of course, makes kiss cams literally Grantaire’s worst nightmare). 

Besides Grantaire, Enjolras sighs, a full body experience which leaves the man sinking into his seat. Well, Grantaire inwardly laughs, at least the kiss cam would annoy one person more that it annoyed Grantaire himself. Because if anything pisses Enjolras off quickly, it’s enforced heterosexuality. 

“Heteronormativity!” Grantaire says brightly in a sing-song voice which makes Enjolras glare darkly at him as though he was the one to bring this horror upon the stadium. 

Enjolras sighs more and more every time a straight white couple kiss, and if Grantaire wasn’t equally annoyed he’d find the look on Enjolras’s face highly amusing. 

That is, until Enjolras’s stern face appears on the screen, and next to him in the vomit-inducing love heart is the red-headed girl sitting down the row. This time, Grantaire might actually throw up. Or cry. Or both. 

He doesn’t even laugh when the commentator says something about Enjolras looking like he needs a kiss to cheer him up. 

Crying? Crying feels like a good thing to do. 

Grantaire feels his heart sink as the girl lights up with a tiny glance towards the gorgeous being that is Enjolras, and he kind of sympathises with her, because, come on, who wouldn’t want to kiss Enjolras? He may be a little jealous (scratch that, a lot jealous), but he’ll have so much teasing ammunition when they leave. Bahorel is going to be delighted. 

Then some curls block out the sunshine and Grantaire realises that Enjolras has instead decided to kiss him. Him being Grantaire. 

Grantaire is vaguely aware of an ‘ooohhhh!’ going up around the crowds, but then he stops being aware of anything besides warm lips and blond curls. Because. Enjolras. Is. Kissing. Him.

Even if it’s only to put up a finger to capitalism, the patriarchy, etc. Enjolras is kissing Grantaire, and that is all that matters. 

Enjolras is soft and warm, and this is strange because Grantaire had always imagined kissing Enjolras in a fit of anger, when they argue as they often do, a moment of silence where they declare their love. But, he like this nonetheless. This is nice. 

But still, crying seems like the most natural response. To all situations, ever. 

Although their lips touch for a maximum of five seconds, it feels like decades, no, goddamn centuries, to Grantaire, who is practically swimming in the smell of Enjolras’s perfect hair, but all of a sudden Enjolras is gone again, snapping Grantaire back to the not-so-nice reality of the cheering crowds. Grantaire looks up and catches a glimpse of himself on the screen as the commentator yells, “What a plot twist!” 

He looks as though Christmas has come early, with a blush spreading over his cheeks that would put Marius Pontmercy to shame, and he sinks into his seat to try and hide his kid-given-all-the-candy grin, sneaking a look at Enjolras, who looks serenely calm with the wind blowing gently in his hair. Screw the perfect bastard. 

Grantaire puts that particular thought out of his mind for now. 

“Surprise!” Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire feels himself laughing, despite the complete failure of emotional processing that he’s currently going through. 

The girl on Enjolras’s other side huffs loudly (much to Grantaire’s delight), and Grantaire has to stop himself from swooning when Enjolras bites his lip trying not to laugh. 

Grantaire jumps when someone clears their throat loudly, turning to see Courfeyrac with a shit-eating grin on his face, trying not to spill the three drinks that are shaking dangerously with Courf’s attempts not to laugh. 

“Shut up.” He angrily whispers before Courfeyrac can even open his mouth, and Courfeyrac winks as he sits down. 

Grantaire stares at him in apprehension as he hands Enjolras his drink, then Grantaire his. 

“What?” Courfeyrac asks eventually, after about thirty seconds of Grantaire staring at him in horror. The anticipation is worse than anything else that Courfeyrac could possibly throw at him, surely?

“Did you-“

“What, see two of my best friends making out on screen?” Courfeyrac answers nonchalantly, and Grantaire whips his head around to see if Enjolras heard, but Enjolras is gazing quietly up at the sky, so Grantaire just turns back to a sniggering Courfeyrac. “I think he’s made up for upsetting you, don’t you think?” Courfeyrac adds. 

Grantaire hits his arm and glares. Courfeyrac just grins.


End file.
